


We'll Change the World Yet to Our Dessire [sic]

by cresswells



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Engagement Announcement, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Red White and Royal Blue Big Bang 2020, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, World Travel, sappy fiancés in love, the typo in the title is deliberate, travelling vicariously through fictional characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresswells/pseuds/cresswells
Summary: Alex and Henry are engaged and ready to share their announcement with the world, but after the media circus surrounding their forced outing Queen Mary wants them to do things properly this time. To Alex’s surprise, ‘properly’ apparently means taking a Royal Tour around Europe as an official couple.Ten days, five countries and lots of unnecessary wardrobe changes. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 39
Kudos: 178
Collections: Red White & Royal Blue Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

####  _I know that early in January you and I will go away together for a long voyage, and that your lovely life goes always hand in hand with mine. My dear wonderful boy, I hope you are brilliant and happy._

**\- Letter from Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, 1894**

When Alex had first heard the words “royal tour” he’d naively assumed that he was about to be shown around Buckingham Palace.

Now, as his and Henry’s plane descends smoothly onto the runway in Stockholm and he glances out of the window to see a crowd of paparazzi, their cameras clicking frantically, he starts to think that maybe he should have paid a little more attention to their pre-tour briefings.

Not that he _hadn’t_ been paying attention. It’s just that, well… the pre-tour briefings had been longer than his mom’s Powerpoint presentations and their tour manager had blathered on for literal _hours_ about dining etiquette and pocket squares and suitable topics of conversation for royals, somehow managing to make international relations, a topic which Alex would ordinarily be interested in, dull as hell.

He pushes the window blind down and takes a deep breath. If he’s honest with himself, he knows that the jitters he’s feeling now aren’t because he’s unprepared. Alex has tagged along on plenty of Presidential campaign stops; he figures he’s an old pro at this kind of thing now. But he’s never been the centre of attention on a publicity campaign before. And there’s a lot riding on this trip going smoothly…

Beside him, Alex’s fiancé – the reason Alex is currently sitting on a plane just outside of Stockholm, waiting to be ambushed by reporters – lets out a shaky sigh.

He turns to see Henry open his eyes where they’d been squeezed shut. Henry’s hand, which had been clamped over his, relaxes slightly as the plane decelerates. Alex rubs his thumb over Henry’s knuckles, soothingly.

“You good, baby?”

Henry grimaces. “Landing’s the worst part. It never really gets easier.”

Bringing Henry’s hand up to his mouth to brush a reassuring kiss across the top of his fiancé’s fingers, Alex hums in sympathy. This is one of the many new and surprising things he’s learnt about Henry since the world found out about their relationship: His Royal Highness Prince Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor is a nervous flyer. It seems incredible to Alex that he only discovered this _two years_ (and multiple transatlantic flights) into their relationship, but so much of their relationship has involved flying _to_ each other – they’ve rarely had the opportunity to fly somewhere _together_.

Henry leans back in his seat, raking his free hand along his artfully tousled sandy hair, taking care not to mess up the tour hairdresser, (because, as Alex discovered twenty minutes into their flight, _apparently that’s a thing_ ) Katie’s, work. To an inexperienced eye, Henry might seem at ease now that they’ve landed, but Alex knows him well enough to recognise the tension in his jaw and the rigidity of his shoulders. The flight might be over, but what waits for them on the ground is potentially more nerve-wracking.

*

It had begun, as royal duties often did, with Queen Mary summoning them to a meeting in Buckingham Palace. Since Alex remembered only too well how hard they’d had to fight the last time they’d both been invited to that particular meeting room, he had gone in fully prepared to tackle the old lady to the excessively expensive carpet if he needed to. Ten minutes into their conversation, however, he’d found himself completely at a loss as to what was going on.

“A tour?” Henry had asked, sounding as dumbfounded as Alex had felt. “As an official couple? You want me _and Alex_ to represent the monarchy?”

The queen pursed her lips, disapproval etched into every line of her wizened face. Clearly, she wasn’t used to having her orders challenged. “It isn’t a question of what _I want_ ,” she stated in the same slow, precise manner with which she did everything, “but what must be done to protect the crown.” She stirred another cube of sugar into her tea, then leaned back to assess their reactions to that statement with sharp eyes.

“Is the crown under threat?” Alex had asked, bewildered.

“Potentially,” she replied. “It has come to my attention that very soon the two of you may once again find yourselves - and, by extension, the crown - embroiled in a media maelstrom.” 

Henry’s expression hardened. “Why now?” he asked, his voice sharp. “What, may I ask, is it about me and Alex that suddenly poses such a threat to the crown?”

The queen didn’t flinch at the bitterness in her grandson’s tone. Instead, she leaned forward to place her teaspoon on a delicate saucer and asked, almost casually, “I assume the most recent rumours about the two of you are true?”

At that, Alex had let out an incredulous laugh. So _this_ was what their summons was really all about.

In reply to his grandmother’s question, Henry reached into his collar and pulled out the ring he’d taken to wearing around his neck when they were in public. Alex brought a hand up to his own engagement ring, nestled against the signet ring and old house key which lay warm against his chest.

Henry’s grandmother spared the ring one cold glance before turning back to her cup of tea. “I see.” She took a long, slow sip. “Well,” she continued. “If you insist on pursuing this course of action, arrangements will have to be made to ease the British people into the idea. We must do things properly this time.”

Henry’s face, which had seemed etched in stone a moment ago, relaxed slightly. “Properly?”

“Properly,” Queen Mary had repeated with a dignified sniff. “The last thing we need is for the press to make another spectacle out of this. Your tour will begin in three months’ time; if everything goes smoothly and public opinion of the two of you is… satisfactory, arrangements can be made for an official announcement. Philip announced his engagement in the grounds at Kensington two months after his African tour with Martha – that seems an appropriate time frame for you, as well.”

There was a momentary silence. Beside Alex, Henry slumped back in his chair, seemingly lost for words.

Awkwardly, Alex cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, feeling like the world’s greatest hick as Henry and the Queen of England both turned their eyes to him for the first time since they entered the room, “this might be a dumb question, but… what exactly is this tour thing?”

*

The Royal Tour. A tradition, as Alex had learned, that stretched back generations. Ostensibly, the tour’s purpose was to strengthen the ties between the Royal family and the countries visited. Unofficially, at least in Queen Mary’s case, it seemed to be the crown’s preferred way of putting a positive news spin on whichever unfortunate member of the family was selected for the trip.

“Gran had Bea sent on a Canadian tour a few years back,” Henry had explained to him later that day. “After the rehab rumours started. For a whole month the papers were flooded with photos of her visiting hospitals and kissing babies. None of the tabloids dared say a word against her after that. For a while, anyway.”

Alex can’t say he isn’t conflicted about the whole thing. On the one hand, this – meeting with politicians, making connections – this is what he’s good at. He wants to support Henry and he long ago accepted that being with Henry means that occasionally he’ll have to be this person – a ‘representative of the crown’. But as it stands, that crown is on the head of a woman he loathes, and while he’s sure Henry can forge a better path for himself and put his unfortunately bloodstained legacy to some good, neither of them really feel comfortable schmoozing with various heads of State in _that woman’s_ name.

“We should’ve announced our engagement before the old hag could find out,” Alex mutters now, as they wait for the plane to come to a stop.

“We still could announce it ourselves,” says Henry. He reaches up to press his fingers against the chain around Alex’s neck. “We could do it right now. Just post a picture of our rings on Instagram and be done with it.”

Part of Alex is tempted.

But here’s the thing: as much as he’d like to throw caution to the wind, he knows a lot of time and effort – not to mention money – has gone into arranging this tour. And whatever he says, Alex knows that Henry likes the idea of ‘doing things properly this time’. He wants his relationship to be treated the exact same way Philip’s engagement was treated: just another royal couple getting hitched.

All they need to do is appease the old crone until she’s satisfied that the public have been ‘eased into’ the idea of Alex-and-Henry as a united entity.

Hence, the royal tour. Ten days, five countries and lots of fake smiles.

Alex leans forward to rest his head against his fiancé’s.

“You want to just ‘be done with it’?” he asks.

Henry shrugs, lifting a hand up to curl around Alex’s neck like a question mark. He rubs gently at the skin there.

“Maybe it would be easier,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to do something like this.”

It’s true – since their very public outing two years ago, Henry hasn’t often been called on to act as a representative of the crown. But in this instance, despite Henry’s move to Brooklyn and the baby steps he’s taken to distance himself from the royal family, he needs to play the part of a prince. Which means that he and Alex need to be seen following all the steps of an ordinary royal courtship.

They’re normalising it. They’re assimilating. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

He could back out right now. But, well. Again, Alex knows Henry. He knows that this – normalising their relationship – is the one thing Henry desperately wants.

And what Alex desperately wants is to be able to give that to him.

“You think I’m gonna to throw caution to the wind and risk cancelling our trip before I get to kiss you in five new countries?” he teases, running a hand through his fiancé’s hair – definitely messing up Katie’s hard work this time. “Not a chance.”

Henry’s smile up close is breath-taking.

“We’ve been in Sweden for two entire minutes and you haven’t kissed me yet,” he murmurs sweetly.

Which – _well_. That’s got to be rectified immediately, hasn’t it?

“C’mere,” Alex whispers with a grin, tugging Henry in by the lapels of his expensive new blazer and pressing their lips together.

*

The plane has barely crawled to a stop before their tour entourage is scrambling out of their seats and moving around the confined space at an alarmingly frantic pace.

“Remember,” a ringing Welsh lilt breaks through the controlled chaos, “we’re on a tight turn around; we’ve got fifteen minutes from landing time to disembarking, then ten minutes until departure.” The speaker is their tour manager, Cerys, a blonde, sharp-faced woman in her early forties. In the three interactions Alex has had with her so far, he’s yet to see her smile. Alex is sure that Cerys told everyone these timings twice during the flight already – not to mention that this information is on page one of their meticulously detailed and personalised laminated binders – but not one of the thirteen staff dares mention this. He can’t blame them. Even Alex, who’s used to Zahra, is a little intimidated by her.

“Gemma, your team are on unloading duty – I want everything off this plane and loaded into the ground vehicles within half an hour of the Royal motorcade’s exit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cerys turns her sharp gaze on Alex and Henry, both of whom are still seated. She frowns.

“Katie?” she calls.

“On it.” Katie appears behind them, armed with a comb, and throws Alex an exasperated look like she _knows_ he’s to blame for Henry’s dishevelled state.

“Sorry,” Alex mouths to her. She just rolls her eyes and gets to work as Cerys turns her back on them to confer with Cash and Amy, who are heading up the American side of their security detail.

Alex rises, lifting his arms in a half-stretch before fiddling absently with the linnaea borealis tucked into his blazer’s buttonhole. It’s a droopy, spindly-looking flower which makes for an utterly ridiculous boutonnière, but it’s also the official flower of Sweden and their tour stylist, Malcolm, seems determined to imbue each of their sartorial options with as much overt political goodwill as possible. Henry’s outfit today is even less subtle: a cobalt blue suit with a bright yellow tie, to match the Swedish flag. Still, Henry looks gorgeous in blue, so Alex can’t complain.

He’s not given much time to stand around aimlessly; less than ten seconds later, Alex finds himself being ushered over to the front exit doors. Shaan is ready by the doors, diligently double-checking his headset.

“You okay?” Shaan asks as Alex draws nearer. He raises an eyebrow. “You’re looking queasy. Did you eat the chili? Aeroplane food, am I right?”

Alex snorts. “I’m fine. Just want to get out of here.”

Henry appears at his shoulder then, hair successfully re-styled. He’s clenching his phone in his hand, looking vaguely irritated with this whole tour thing already - not a good sign, since they haven’t even left the plane yet.

“Almost time, according to Cerys,” he says. “Oh, and Gemma wants to know if you remember the Swedish phrases you’re supposed to use in our initial greeting.”

Alex feigns outrage. “ _¡Oh por Dios Santo! _ You’re asking the bilingual guy if he remembers how to say “good afternoon” and “thank you” in another language? I _think_ I’ve got this.”

Henry’s eyes narrow, but his tense expression relaxes into a warm smile. “That wasn’t a ‘yes’,” he points out.

“Is this a test?” Alex smirks, looping a hand around Henry’s god-awful yellow tie. “Come closer and I’ll whisper them in your ear.”

“You two.” Cerys’ flat voice is a bucket of icy water, and Alex reluctantly relinquishes his grip on the tie. She gives both Alex and Henry an assessing once-over, then nods approvingly. “We’re about ready to go. When the door opens, you’re to step out together. Holding hands, preferably - we want to present the two of you as a united front. Henry, you’ll greet the welcome party first – Alex, you follow his lead. Any questions?”

 _Yeah, if I get an itch should I scratch my ass in front of the cameras, or wait until we’re in private?_ Alex barely resists asking. Because seriously – it’s not like he’s a novice at this. At least on presidential campaigns he wasn’t treated like a toddler.

“No questions,” he mutters instead.

Cerys nods. She gestures towards a man in uniform, and the door begins to slide smoothly open, letting in bright sunlight and a cool Scandinavian breeze.

As staff flitter out of sight of the opening door, hissing orders into their headsets, Henry links his hand through Alex’s, squeezing once. His other hand reaches up to smooth the newly formed creases out of his tie.

“Ready?” he asks.

Alex squeezes back. “ _Ja, hjärtat_ ,” he says, grinning as Henry’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Did you… research Swedish pet names?” he asks, voice low.

“What, you think I was going to miss the opportunity to sweet-talk you in five new languages, _älskling_?”

Henry lets out a long-suffering groan as he pulls him in for a kiss – thankfully, they’re still just out of sight of the reporters waiting behind the sliding door, but their tour team still gets an eyeful.

“You’re absurd and I love you,” Henry states when they part.

“Time’s up, lovebirds,” Amy says behind them, giving Alex a little shove. “Stop smooching, start walking.”

*

Walking out into the brisk Scandinavian afternoon air, Alex’s first, painfully stereotypical thought is that Sweden is _cold_ even in late June. The sun is out, but there’s a bite to the wind, sharp and unwelcoming.

It’s a private airfield, thankfully, which means that even though Alex is sure they’ll be ambushed sooner or later on this trip, their arrival is fairly low-key. The press – about fifty or sixty reporters and camera crew – are packed in together on a portable viewing platform some 70 feet away, which Alex presumes was erected for the sole purpose of getting a decent high angle shot of this ten-minute meet and greet. Given the vast expanse of the airfield it makes them look ridiculously confined, like sheep in a pen, but he’s glad at least that someone on their tour entourage has established clear boundaries for the media swarm that’s bound to be following them.

On the ground just ahead of the press pen a small group of five make up their welcome party – the Swedish prime minister and his wife, the mayor of Stockholm, her husband and her daughter. They’re all immaculately dressed up, which makes Alex feel a little better about the dozens of expensive suits he knows Malcolm’s brought for them.

Henry takes the lead, first shaking hands and making polite small talk with Prime Minister Karlsson, then his wife. Alex follows, finally feeling in his element. He’s always considered this - smooth-talking politicians - to be one of his core strengths. There are some aspects of Henry’s life as a royal that he still doesn’t get and might never truly understand, but this comes as easily as breathing to him; he might not know which fork to use when, or the correct form of address for a duke, but he can talk his way through anything.

Not that he’s given much time to show off his newly learnt Swedish phrases; they’ve barely done much more than shake hands with everyone before Cerys is bustling them into a black SUV, muttering under her breath about “the schedule”.

The rest of their day is packed full of an exhausting whirl of public events. They’re to be received by Queen Estelle in Kungliga slottet (the Royal Palace in Stockholm), then taken to the Riksdagshuset for a private dinner with the Prime Minister, followed by a guided tour of Stockholm City Hall, where they’ve been pre-warned that they’ll be treated to a ‘surprise’ performance from a children’s choir.

Queen Estelle, to Alex’s surprise, is an excellent hostess with a great sense of humour. Once the formalities and gift exchange are out of the way, the elderly matriarch shoos her staff out of the room and offers them both tea and a slice each of a _prinsesstårta_ she’d made herself. Henry, whom Alex guesses has never seen his grandmother so much as step foot in a kitchen, seems bewildered by her kindness at first, which sends a fresh spike of hatred for Queen Mary through Alex’s heart. Alex spends the next hour engaged in friendly debate with the queen of Sweden on the role of monarchies in modern times, Henry interjecting from time to time with profuse apologies. For her part, Queen Estelle seems unflappable - delighted, even, at the prospect of being challenged so openly.

“It _has_ been a long while since I’ve had a good debate,” she sighs in a surprisingly musical voice for such an elderly, frail-looking woman. “So few people dare disagree with a woman of my age.”

“I’m sure your position as the head of an outdated and oppressive institution has nothing to do with that,” Alex says in the sweetest voice he can muster.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Henry groans, covering his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. I can’t take him _anywhere_.”

Queen Estelle simply laughs at the two of them and demands in her most imperious voice that they help themselves to more cake.

Dinner with the Prime Minister, by comparison, begins as an extremely dull affair. Throughout the meal Karlsson bores them with the usual diplomatic spiel about building bridges and bringing their countries together - all in the vaguest possible terms, of course, so that he’s not accused of breaking any promises later. Like far too many political leaders in the world, Karlsson’s idea of a conversation seems to involve lots of talking with minimal listening. Even Henry seems to tire of being in his presence after a while. Alex watches as his fiancé reverts back into the role of a straight-backed, aloof prince, nodding blandly at the Prime Minister’s words, his expression politely neutral. It’s when the Prime Minister starts reminiscing about the last royal visit to Sweden, though, that things really start to take a turn for the worse.

“I remember watching you and your father waving to the crowd outside the gates of Drottningholm! I was there, in that crowd!” He slaps his leg and laughs at the memory. “You were such a strapping young fellow,” he says with a chuckle, “and so boisterous! Your father, too. No one would ever have guessed that you’d grow up to be - well…” He trails off with an awkward laugh. Henry stares at him and says nothing.

Alex clenches his fists in his lap. He wants very, very badly to smash something. Preferably over Karlsson’s stupid head.

“Well,” Karlsson continues, smiling slightly sheepishly, as if inviting them to join him in an inside joke. “You know.”

“I didn’t grow up to be anything,” Henry says coldly. “The person I was then is the person I am now.”

There’s a deathly silent pause.

“Heh. Yes. Well.” Karlsson clears his throat and his smile fades into something more guarded. “It was a surprise, that’s all.”

“Why?” Alex spits.

Karlsson blinks. Evidently, he’d been hoping that they would be just as eager to brush aside the uncomfortable faux pas as he was.

Well, fuck that. If there’s one thing Alex has learnt as a bisexual Mexican-American in the spotlight, it’s that the best way to deal with microaggressions is to address them head-on.

“Why was _our relationship_ surprising to you?” he repeats slowly, like he’s talking to a very small, particularly dimwitted child.

The Prime Minister immediately goes on the defensive.

“Whoa, whoa, there!” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Lighten up, my good fellow! I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Alex takes a deep breath. He’s about to school this ignorant prick and hopefully make him think twice about what he says next time he opens his big mouth, when Henry’s hand brushes against his under the table.

“We’ve had a long flight, Prime Minister,” Henry says with a painfully hollow laugh. “But do tell us more about the educational reforms you mentioned earlier - I’ve always been interested in Scandinavian methods of schooling…”

An agonising ten minutes of small talk passes after that, before Karlsson allows the press in to take posed photos of the evening meal. As he heads to the door, Alex reaches out to squeeze Henry’s hand.

He doesn’t even need to ask the question. Henry squeezes back, murmurs, “I’m okay. It’s okay,” and then reaches for his fork, plastering that horrible, bland paparazzi smile back onto his face.

He’s not okay. Alex knows he’s far from okay. He wants to take every person who’s ever made Henry feel this way, every barbed microaggression and every snide comment ever made behind his back or to his face, and throw them all into a tornado.

He settles for deliberately pretending not to see Karlsson’s outstretched hand when they leave, because fuck that guy. He doesn’t care if the press see it and take it for the slight that it most definitely is.

*

By the time they reach their final press stop of the day, the sun has set. Outside Stockholm City Hall the lights of the city gleam golden on the dark waters of Riddarfjärden Bay, like yellow candles casting a flickering glow across the gently rippling surface. Alex and Henry are ushered into the building through an unassuming side entrance, but just before the door closes Alex sees his fiancé glance back at the view, a wistful look in his eye.

The children’s choir at City Hall are enthusiastic, if not particularly talented. They get to spend ten minutes at the end of the performance chatting with the kids and it’s easily the best part of the day; Henry praises them all on their individual performances while Alex poses for selfies with those who are brave enough to ask for them, pulling increasingly silly faces in each one. Unsurprisingly, Alex finds his gaze continually drawn to Henry, watching how his professional demeanour melts away in front of the kids, somehow simultaneously becoming more at ease and more animated. He’s reminded of their very first joint charity appearance, and how easily Henry had let down his princely façade for the kids in the hospital they’d visited. Looking back, it’s ridiculously obvious to him that that moment - watching Henry bond with a little girl over _Star Wars_ , finally catching a glimpse of who Henry really was - had been the moment that Alex had started to fall for him.

Alex knows the real Henry now, much better than anyone else, but something inside of him still melts a little when he sees Henry crouched down, playfully tapping an arrhythmic beat on one of the kid’s drums.

He thinks his surreptitious glances are successfully going unnoticed, until he looks up to find Henry looking back at him.

Absurdly, Alex feels heat rise in his cheeks as he turns away.

*

It’s late when they finally find themselves alone behind the closed door of their hotel room - alone for the first time since exiting Kensington Palace at 5am that morning. Alex makes a beeline for the bed and launches face-first into the comforter.

Henry laughs. Alex lifts his head, grinning, and watches as Henry seems to relax for the first time in hours, shoulders slumping and posture loosening as he pulls at his awful yellow tie.

“That,” he says, pausing to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands, “to borrow a phrase from my future sister-in-law, was _a lot_.”

Alex hums and rolls onto his back, patting the space on the bed beside him in what he hopes is a sultry manner. “Come to bed, _min käraste_ ,” he croons, unable to keep himself from cackling when Henry throws his tie at him.

“Enough,” Henry says, faux-sternly. “You’re not allowed to be this adorable when I’m too tired to properly flirt with you.”

“All right,” Alex relents. “I’ll stop.” He reaches out a hand. “Just... come lie with me for a moment, would you?”

Henry’s eyes soften as he flops down next to him on the bed. Alex curls into him like a cat, head resting on his stomach. Henry reaches down to bury his hand in Alex’s hair, running his fingers rhythmically through the soft strands, and Alex finds his eyes fluttering closed. For a long moment, they lie together, breathing each other in, letting the stillness settle around them.

“My fiancé,” Alex whispers. _Fiancé_ , he’d discovered shortly after their engagement, was as delightfully effective in triggering a Pavlovian response from Henry as _baby_.

Sure enough, Henry’s eyelids flutter closed at the word. Eyes shut, he traces his fingers along Alex’s jawline, his mouth forming a gentle smile.

“You’re terrible,” he complains softly. “We said no more pet names.”

Alex leans into his touch. “That one’s not a pet name,” he murmurs. “It’s just the truth. You’re my fiancé, and I’m yours.”

He feels Henry’s breathing stutter beneath him. “You’re mine and I’m yours,” Henry repeats, sounding fully at ease for the first time since they stepped out of the plane today.

“Better?” Alex asks.

“Mmm.”

Henry’s hand moves from Alex’s jaw to the nape of his neck, absently brushing his fingers back and forth along the shorter bristles of hair there.

“Thank you,” he says eventually. “For dealing with Karlsson the way you did today.”

Alex makes an angry noise in the back of his throat at the reminder of that idiot. “Do you think anyone will notice if I push him into the Baltic Sea?”

Henry laughs and presses a kiss to the top of Alex’s head. “Better not risk it,” he says. “Besides, I don’t think there’ll be time.”

Alex groans. “Think Cerys’ll allow us any time to eat or shit tomorrow?”

“There are several toilet breaks written into the schedule,” Henry informs him. “Maximum peeing time is three minutes.”

Alex snorts into his fiancé’s stomach. “Gotta say,” he admits, “this is not how I imagined our first vacation.”

“Hmm,” Henry agrees.

“Stockholm is beautiful, though,” Alex says, mostly to himself. “Y’know, the parts of it we got to see, anyway.”

Henry hums in agreement again, and Alex remembers the wistful look he’d caught a glimpse of earlier. He wonders when the last time Henry was able to wander around outside, or explore an unfamiliar city without restrictions was. Probably never. Even in Paris and Berlin they’d had PPOs tailing their every move. They’ve never been truly alone outside, except on private property and that one time they managed to sneak out to the V&A. The thought leaves a hollow feeling in his chest. He half-considers suggesting sneaking out of their hotel room, but then Henry yawns loudly, reminding him just how exhausted they both are.

Tomorrow, he vows. Tomorrow, he’ll find some opportunity for them to sneak off and take in the sights of the city by themselves, even if it’s just for a moment.

The chime of an incoming text on Alex’s phone, closely followed by an identical chime on Henry’s, pulls them both out of their reverie. Alex’s phone is closest, so he pulls himself up to rest on the pillow beside Henry, and opens up their group chat.

####  **Nora’s Brow Game Appreciation Society**

**June 29, 2022, 01:32AM**

**auntie pezza**

How much glitter eyeshadow is too much glitter eyeshadow?

**BUG**

_mean_girls_the_limit_does_not_exist.gif_

**irl chaos demon**

glitter eyeshadow? where’s the party and why wasn’t i invited? rude

**auntie pezza**

No party, darling, just getting glammed up for a movie night in Budapest

Beneath his last message, Pez has attached a picture. In it, he’s lounging on a plush sofa, pouting at the camera, his platinum blonde hair and silvery eyeshadow creating a striking contrast against his dark skin. Squeezed into the frame are a skinny teenager with dreadlocks, a pale blonde girl with dark rings under her eyes and another teen with bright ginger hair, who appears to have jumped into the frame at the last minute. All three of them are grinning at the camera, holding up pizza slices. Pinned to the wall behind them is a trans pride flag with the hashtags #LGRforHungary, #IgentANemre and #Drop33 hand-painted in bold letters.

“Your shelter?” Alex asks Henry; he’s fairly sure he recognises the blonde girl from Henry’s social media, and he knows that Henry and Pez have been spending a lot of time over the last few years campaigning for the Hungarian government to repeal Article 33.

Henry nods, smiling at the picture. “Yeah,” he says. He tugs the phone from Alex’s hand and starts typing a one-handed reply. “Pez flew over there a couple of days ago for a big protest this weekend outside the _Országház_. Last week he was in Germany, so I guess he’s doing a kind of tour of his own, only with less handshaking.”

Something about Henry’s tone makes a dozen little things he’s noticed today fall into place.

“This is what’s been bothering you all day, isn’t it?” Alex realises.

Henry raises his eyes from Alex’s phone and has the gall to look surprised. “Bothering me?”

Alex just gives him a look. “Sweetheart, I know when something’s up. You’ve been tense all day, and it’s not just Karlsson or Cerys or the schedule or the cameras. You were unhappy before we even got off the plane.” He gestures to the picture of Pez. “You want to be there, with them.”

Henry rolls over, wrapping his arm around Alex’s waist and tugging him closer so that they’re pressed together before Alex has even finished speaking. “I want to be there with _you_ ,” he corrects. His free hand comes up to rest on Alex’s collarbone, tracing the skin there.

Gently, Alex wraps his fingers around Henry’s, holding them to his chest. “Then why are we _here_?”

Henry shrugs against him. “This wasn’t exactly my first choice of destination.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Gran and Cerys chose Scandinavia because it was deemed ‘safe’,” Henry explains. “Sweden’s one of the most LGBTQ+ friendly countries in the world.” He glances again at the picture of Pez, and he sounds slightly bitter as he continues, “They thought we’d be less likely to make waves here.”

Alex doesn’t know what to say. He can’t quite believe it’s taken him so long to notice that this is something that’s been weighing on Henry. And it makes him feel guilty as hell that he hadn’t given any consideration to the countries that had been picked out for them (Sweden first, then on to Iceland, before doubling back to Denmark, Norway and Finland). It’s maybe a little thoughtless of him, but he’d sort of assumed that Henry had ties to Scandinavia. Or that there was a rota or something, some kind of list of Countries-the-UK-Needs-to-Regularly-Kiss-Ass-To and whichever unlucky royal drew the short straw just had to suck it up and go to the next country on the list.

He doesn’t voice any of this. He doesn’t ask why he’s only hearing about Henry’s frustration with their tour destinations now. Alex knows his fiancé well enough to guess that Henry hadn’t wanted to put a downer on their first official trip as a couple.

Instead, he squeezes their joined hands and asks, “What was your first choice?”

“I asked Cerys about the possibility of visiting some of my shelters back when the tour planning was just getting underway,” Henry admits. “Usually on royal tours, events are put on to raise awareness of the family member’s favourite cause or charitable endeavour. Philip and Martha’s tour a few years back drew a lot of media attention to poaching in Botswana and South Africa. And even though Bea’s Canadian tour was a sham, she was still allowed to visit cancer wards and start a Canadian foundation in our dad’s name.” His voice hardens. “But apparently none of the countries I’ve set up shelters in could be fit into our schedule.”

“That’s bullshit,” Alex protests.

Henry shrugs. “Shaan vetoed it too,” he continues in a controlled voice. “On the grounds that homosexuality is still illegal in some of the countries Pez and I have worked with, and it wasn’t deemed safe to visit them. Or even to make contact. According to Cerys, we’d be surprised by the number of Presidents and Prime Ministers who’ve publicly condemned our emails.”

And really, Alex is too angry to say much of anything in response to that. What kind of fucked up world leaders won’t accept a visit from a philanthropist whose only motivation is to raise awareness for a charity that will improve and even _save_ the lives of its citizens? How hateful do you have to be to turn away someone who’s throwing billions of British pounds at your country’s most vulnerable people?

He wants to reassure Henry, but there’s nothing he can say that Henry doesn’t already know. _I love you. I’m sorry. I wish the world sucked a little less_.

For all that Alex prides himself on his diplomacy, it hits him in this moment that he’s remarkably _shit_ at knowing what to say or do in situations like this one. Alex’s go-to reaction when people do shitty things that hurt the people he loves is usually some combination of angry ranting about how fucked up the world is and confronting the problem head on.

But that’s not what Henry needs right now. What he needs is comfort.

And more than anything, what Alex needs in this moment is to say or do something - anything - to banish the sadness from that carefully composed voice that Henry’s been using.

So instead of ranting about the unjustness of it all or leaping into action, Alex nuzzles his face into his fiancé’s shoulder and whispers the platitudes that Henry already knows, but probably still wants to hear.

“I love you. I’m sorry. I wish the world sucked a little less.”

*

####  _...we’ll change the world yet to our dessire_ [sic] _..._

**-Letter from Peter Orlovsky to Allen Ginsberg, 1958**

“Bishop and Barracuda standing by,” Amy says into her earpiece. “Please confirm departure time.”

Alex tugs at the collar of his crisp new suit in irritation. It had been delivered to their hotel room door at six thirty that morning, courtesy of Malcolm and the seemingly Narnia-sized wardrobe he’s brought for them.

Maybe it’s a little elitist of him, but Alex has always appreciated a well-tailored suit; they make him feel sauve and confident. This one, though, feels like it’s choking him.

He doesn’t know why. It’s perfectly fitted and he can tell just from the texture that it’s expensive (although he’s decided that he doesn’t want to know how much the crown has spent on this trip).

His irritation isn’t just aimed at the suit. It’s the whole day. He’d promised himself last night that he’d find a way to make sure he and Henry were able to get some time alone today, away from the cameras and the crowds, to just bask in being together in a beautiful foreign city. No such luck. From the moment they stepped out of their hotel suite that morning they’ve been surrounded by swarming crowds and the tour team hasn’t let them out of their sight. They’ve been pulled in one direction, then another, so many times today that Alex feels slightly nauseous.

And now here they are: standing on opposite sides of an ornate fountain in the beautifully manicured lawns of Drottningholm Palace, as waiters weave between guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and topping up champagne glasses. Their last event in Sweden, a dinner party hosted by Queen Estelle’s eldest son and heir apparent, His Royal Highness Prince Oscar, is coming to an end. The sky is afire, the setting sun throwing brilliant hues of red, orange and gold across the horizon and casting the gardens in a delicate pinkish glow. It’s a breathtakingly beautiful, romantic setting and Alex wants to cry with frustration when he sees that Henry has been waylaid yet again by Prince Oscar.

Worse still, he’s plastered on his bland press smile. Before this trip started, Alex hadn’t seen that awful smile in years. He’s seen it more times than he can count in the last two days.

It’s really making him want to kick something. There’s too many cameras around for him to indulge that impulse, though, so he settles for imagining kicking Karlsson instead.

“Affirmative,” Amy says into her mic. Then she’s leaning in to whisper in Alex’s ear, “Twenty more minutes, then we can scram.”

Alex nods and gives Amy a grateful smile. He knows that “then we can scram” means “that’s when you’re leaving and you don’t have a say in the matter” but he appreciates her making it sound like they’ve got a choice.

She completes her ten-second scan of the surrounding area, then turns back to him, giving him an assessing look. “How’re you holding up?”

That’s not really a question Alex feels like he can answer honestly in the middle of a banquet the Swedish royal family and government have put on in their honour, so he settles for a shrug and a large gulp of champagne.

Amy nods, like he’s given her the answer she was expecting.

“Working with your mom,” she says, quietly, so as not to be overheard by the guests milling around them, “has taught me a lot about these kinds of events. I know how draining they can be.”

Alex finds himself shaking his head. “It’s not that.” For a moment, looking out across the immaculate lawns, he imagines this night from the perspective of any of the other guests. He wonders if any of them care about whether he and Henry are having a good time.

Amy glances quizzically at him.

“From the outside, it might look like all of this is for me and Henry,” he explains quietly, gesturing to the garden, the guests in their glamorous clothes, the banquet hall they’ve just come from. “But it’s not. It’s not for us, it’s not for the queen. It’s not even really to foster peace. They’re not doing this because they _want_ to be here or because they think this trip will strengthen the bonds between Sweden and the U.K. Not really. They’re spending all this money because it looks good for them to be seen shaking our hands. That’s all. They’re beholden to the press, just like us.” 

Alex knows it’s a bad idea to be speaking his mind in such an open setting, but the words spill from his mouth anyway. Amy, to her credit, doesn’t tell him to stop talking or warn him about evesdroppers during this rant. She lets him get it all out, calmly conducting her ten-second scans as she listens, ever the consummate professional.

“And here I was, thinking that everyone here wanted to shake my hand because they were so charmed by my winning personality and stunning good looks,” he finishes bitterly, tipping back his glass to catch the last dregs of champagne.

Amy scoffs. “Please. Your personality isn’t winning you anything.”

“Ouch. Now I know why no one’s asked to shake _your_ hand all evening.”

Amy shakes her head as if to say ‘ _who put this idiot in my charge and how do I request a transfer?_ ’, but she’s unable to suppress a quick smirk before she reverts back to the stoic Secret Service expression that’s been drilled into all of them.

“You wanna know the worst part?” Alex continues. There’s a harsh tone to his voice now, and he can feel his jaw tensing with scorn. “Having to just grin and bear it. Knowing that we’ll always be treated this way. Ever since we came out… Henry and I - we’re conservative catnip now. Just being seen talking to us for a few minutes is enough. It’s a way for Karlsson and assholes like him to look progressive without actually having to do or say anything progressive at all.”

Alex knows, without either of them having to say it out loud, that Amy understands this particular grievance more than any of the rest of their team ever could.

“It’s all a show,” Amy summarises quietly.

And honestly, that’s the rotten truth at the core of all the little things that have been frustrating him tonight. Aren’t they supposed to be past this? The lies, the sneaking around, the fake smiles and posed photo ops with politicians they despise? Their most private thoughts and love confessions to each other were broadcast _to the entire world_ , and somehow, it still feels like they’re hiding.

 _For good reason this time, though_ , Alex reminds himself. Eight more days of playing nice, and then they’ll be back home in Brooklyn, making wedding plans.

Alex knows that sometimes in life you’ve got to suck it up and accept a shitty, menial job you hate in order to prove yourself. Other than having to play nice with people like Karlsson - and let’s be honest, he’s made it pretty clear to any press in the vicinity that he despises Karlsson - he doesn’t mind putting up with this for the rest of their trip. It’s all just politics. He can play the game and stay true to himself.

He presses a hand to the two rings tucked under his shirt.

 _Eight days._ He can do this.

A barrage of noise pulls him out of his thoughts. He turns to see his fiancé surrounded by a group of loud women, looking frankly bewildered. Henry seems to have shaken Oscar off, only to be ambushed by another group. Alex recognises one of the women as the mayor of Stockholm, who’s clutching Henry’s shoulder (which, Alex thinks, is far too familiar a gesture for someone who’s spent less than half an hour in his company) and roaring with laughter over something that Henry’s said.

Across the fountain, Henry meets Alex’s eyes. “Help,” he mouths, and Alex knows it’s just a joke, but he can’t bring himself to smile like he knows he’s supposed to.

Eight days. Alex can maybe justify eight more days of this for himself, but this feels like uncomfortably familiar territory for Henry. Henry, who spent years learning to _toe the line_ and _remember your place_. Henry, whose only goal as a royal is to give as much of his inheritance away as possible. Henry, who is gentle and kind and deserves to be allowed to share as much or as little of himself with the world as he chooses to.

_Give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart. There’s so much of you._

“Be right back,” he mouths to Henry, before turning to Amy. “Where’s Cerys?”

For a moment, she looks like she’s debating whether or not to remind him that he’s supposed to stay put at this party for another fifteen minutes. But something makes her hold her tongue - maybe it’s the look in his eyes, or the tension in his voice, or maybe she’s just as frustrated with the fucking schedule as he is - whatever it is, she nods once, mutters a terse order into her earpiece, and gestures for Alex to follow Cash, who takes them through the gardens, into a sparsely lit area where the crowds are thinning.

Cash stops there to converse in quiet tones with Amy. Alex tugs his tie loose while he waits. A few of the guests glance over at him, seemingly surprised to see him so far away from the centre of attention, but they don’t approach. Alex guesses his expression warns them to keep their distance. After a short exchange of words, Cash turns to look back at Alex.

“Something tells me you’re about to start some kind of trouble,” he says, sounding resigned, like he’d known this would happen eventually.

Alex shrugs. “You gonna try to stop me if I do?”

Cash laughs, which is fair enough. Cash is roughly a foot taller than he is and can probably bench press twice Alex’s body weight like it’s nothing.

He’s generous enough not to point it out, though. Instead, he gives Alex an assessing once-over, then asks, “Is it worth it, kid?”

“Absolutely.”

Cash nods once, satisfied, then leads him the rest of the way down the garden path, to a black SUV parked discreetly behind a lavishly ornate pavilion.

“Do your worst, then,” he says with a wry smile, before opening the back door and standing aside for Alex to clamber in.

Typically, Cerys is reading through the tour itinerary when Alex enters. She’s wearing a pair of thin-rimmed reading glasses and making notes in the margins of the schedule for their first day in Reykjavik.

 _Good_ , Alex thinks. _She’s already in editing mode._

Cerys doesn’t look up until the car door slams shut.

“Alex,” she says, sounding surprised, though her expression is as unreadable as ever. Then she frowns and checks her watch. “You’re not supposed to be back for another-” she starts, but he cuts her off with a raised hand.

“We need to talk,” he says.

*

####  _What a desert life might have been without you_.

**\- Letter from Margaret Mead to Ruth Benedict, 1938**

Keflavík, Iceland is significantly colder than Stockholm, Alex thinks, as he finds himself disembarking a plane hand-in-hand with Henry for the second time in almost as many days. Their welcome party is significantly more reserved, too: this time, they’re greeted by the Prime Minister, Freyja Atladóttir, two Members of Parliament from her party and one lone reporter with a camera around his neck - no crowded press pen in sight.

Alex wonders if this is his doing. He hadn’t even thought to include the press as one of his grievances when he confronted Cerys last night; as much as the constant cameras following their every move irritate him, he knows that the whole point of this tour is for him and Henry to be seen as a united front. Cameras documenting their trip are kind of a necessity. Maybe Iceland is just a little more low-key.

Or maybe, just maybe, this is Cerys’s way of showing that she’s willing to meet them halfway.

Honestly, Alex isn’t at all sure what’s in the cards for them now. He’d sat with Cerys for half an hour last night and she hadn’t interrupted him as he ranted - she’d even switched her phone off when it started incessantly beeping reminders that they needed to be on their way back to the hotel. She had let him talk, let him make his objections to being paraded around on the arms of politicians he disliked, let him ask for more charitable events and opportunities for himself and Henry to speak up about issues that matter to them. And… she’d _seemed_ to listen. She didn’t say much in return, or make any promises; in fact, for the first time since Alex had met her, she’d stayed mostly quiet. But once he’d said his piece and sat back, she’d looked down at her schedule, taken a deep breath, and given him a sharp nod.

“Right,” she’d said in her usual precise, clipped business tone. “If that’s all, I’ll send for the others. We’d better be off.”

“If that’s _all_?” Alex had repeated, pitch rising in angry disbelief. “Hang _on_ -”

“ _Mr. Claremont-Diaz_ ,” Cerys said, in a brusque voice that reminded Alex of the way his mother spoke to him as a child when he misbehaved.

Alex immediately shut up.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” she’d continued, her voice gentler. “Please allow me the time to do so.”

There had been something in her expression, something genuine, which caused the tight feeling in Alex’s stomach to unclench. It occurred to him, perhaps for the first time since he’d met this brittle, blank-faced woman who works for the queen, that this wasn’t necessarily someone he had to fight.

Now, as he makes his way down the mobile airplane stairs and onto the tarmac, he catches Cerys’s eye. She gives him an imperceptibly small nod, which he takes as confirmation that this more private welcome party is her doing. He gives her a nod in return. Already, he’s feeling a little better about Iceland.

The solo reporter gets a few group shots and Henry and Atladóttir rattle off the usual bland statements about forging new friendships, which seems to appease Cerys. Then they’re whisked into the waiting vehicle - unsurprisingly, another black SUV - and on their way to the capital, Reykjavik.

Almost immediately, Henry reaches out across the backseat to lay his head on Alex’s shoulder. Alex looks down at the top of his fiancé’s head, smirks, and tugs him a little closer, breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

“You haven’t called me anything sappy yet,” Henry murmurs, so as not to be overheard by Shaan in the front seat. His voice gets lost in the collar of Alex’s suit - blue, with a red tie. (This time, apparently, it’s Alex’s turn to look like a walking, talking flag. Henry wears brown, with a pretty white flower Alex doesn’t know the name of tucked into his buttonhole.) “It’s been ten whole minutes.”

“Impatient, aren’t you, _sæti_?” Alex replies, cheekily. The Icelandic term of endearment slips from his lips easily, like he’s practiced it several times. Which, of course, he has.

Unimpressed, Henry snorts into Alex’s shoulder. “One day, I’m going to get sick of you being such a smart-arse,” he warns.

“Nah,” Alex says, smug in the certainty that his fiancé loves him, smartassery and all. “You won’t.”

Henry doesn’t argue with that. Instead, he nuzzles closer.

“Tired, baby?” Alex asks, wrapping his arm around Henry’s waist.

“Mmmff,” Henry agrees, muffling a yawn into his shoulder. “Shattered.”

Alex doesn’t blame him. The party had gone on pretty late last night, and they’d had about four hours of sleep before dragging themselves out of bed for their flight this morning.

“Then sleep, _krúttið mitt_ ,” he says. “It’s a 45 minute drive; I’ll wake you before we get there.”

Henry grumbles into his shoulder at the new pet name, but Alex can tell that he’s grinning. Before long, his fiancé’s breathing has evened out. Alex watches him for a moment before turning his head to the window to admire another view.

It’s currently only 7:30AM in Iceland, but the sun is already high in the sky, thanks to the infamous midnight sun phenomenon. The sky is a dazzling blue and although Alex knows they’re only a short distance away from the city, the landscape outside their window is lush and verdant, all rolling hills and dramatic cliff slopes. It’s certainly not what he was expecting; in all the photos of Iceland he’s seen before, from friends’ vacation pictures, it’s been covered in layers of glittering snow. Somehow, he thinks, Iceland looks _more_ beautiful in the summer. The dark, craggy mountains and rivers twisting through an endless remote wilderness look like something out of a fantasy novel.

Alex is still gazing out the window, absently hoping that he and Henry will get the opportunity to escape the city centre and just enjoy being together in such a romantic setting, when both his and Henry’s phones buzz simultaneously.

Curious, Alex fishes his phone out of his pocket. It’s an Instagram alert - Pez has tagged them both in a post. Neither he nor Henry use Instagram much, really, (enough of their private life has been shared online without them freely adding to it) but Alex enjoys looking through Pez’s photos. He usually posts an intriguing mix of glamorous, inspirational and outright bizarre pictures, interspersed with the occasional thirst trap.

This post _isn’t_ a thirst trap. Instead, Alex opens Instagram to see a photo of Pez giving a piggyback to the blonde girl from the photo he sent in the group chat two nights ago. It’s a candid, and both are laughing as he struggles to hold onto her without toppling them both over. Alex swipes to the second picture, where the two of them are now posed back-to-back in front of a wooden door painted a cheerful shade of yellow. Hanging from the small door canopy are several pride flags. The plaque beside the door is written in Hungarian, but Alex doesn’t need to read it to know where this is - Henry’s shown him enough times.

The third and final picture is of Pez and Henry, arm in arm outside the shelter building, beaming like a pair of proud dads. It’s so adorable that Alex can’t help but smile. He turns to the man sleeping soundly beside him and presses a quick kiss to the top of his head, before liking the post and scrolling down to read the caption.

**officialpercyokonjo:**

365 days ago, we opened our doors! This weekend, we’re celebrating our anniversary IN STYLE. 

Throwback to our grand opening last year with my main man @officialprincehenry, who’s currently romancing his beau @fsotusalex through northern Europe. Remember to cuddle close for warmth, boys! [kissy face emoji] [boys holding hands emoji]

It’s selfish, possibly, but Alex’s immediate reaction is relief that Henry’s currently asleep. Alex loves Pez and would never begrudge him sharing his pride in their youth shelters with the world. But he doesn’t think that reading about Pez’s weekend plans would be good for Henry’s morale, and he doesn’t want his fiancé to be feeling down before they’ve even begun the Icelandic leg of their trip.

He glances over Pez’s words again, an idea forming.

 _This weekend, we’re celebrating our anniversary IN STYLE._

He knows that Henry suggested visiting his shelters as part of this tour months ago, only to be shot down on the grounds of safety concerns. But that was a general veto of all the countries Henry has set up shelters in - which Alex knows includes Nigeria and Belarus. How unsafe is Hungary, really?

A quick Google confirms for Alex that Hungary isn’t as dangerous to travel to as Nigeria, though it’s not without its own safety concerns. Homosexuality is legal in Hungary, though marriage equality isn’t. Neither is gay adoption or surrogacy. Most articles he finds mention a piece of Hungarian legislature he’s already familiar with, since it’s the same law that Henry and Pez have been so vocally protesting over the last few months - Article 33, which was passed two years ago in Spring 2020, with the devastating result that transgender Hungarians can no longer change their legal gender.

It’s not the safest place to host two of the most famous queer men in the world, Alex’ll admit, grimacing to himself as he reads recent reports of homophobic and transphobic attacks. Henry’s visited his shelter in Budapest before, but covertly, in his own time - never in an official state capacity. Alex certainly doesn’t think they’d be able to set up meet and greets with any Hungarian officials to discuss politics. Their Prime Minister seems far worse than Karlsson - Alex has no doubt whatsoever that this is one of the world leaders who vocally condemned him and Henry when their emails were leaked.

He checks their itinerary. It’s Thursday. Saturday, the day of Pez’s protest/party, is one of the busiest days of the trip. Typical. They’re supposed to be flying into Copenhagen in the early hours of the morning, having ‘mid-morning tea’ in Amalienborg with a member of the Danish royal family (a princess in her late twenties who’s apparently an old “mate” of Henry’s), spending the afternoon on a private tour of the city and then attending a gala charity dinner in the evening.

Cerys has already shown some willingness to alter the tour schedule, though, Alex thinks. They’d have to skip the gala, but they’re not guests of honour or anything. And the rest of their events could easily be squeezed in around Sunday’s tour stops. If this princess is a friend of Henry’s, surely she won’t mind rescheduling?

It’s one day, he reasons. And the flight from Iceland isn’t too long - they could rest on the return flight to Copenhagen and get back in plenty of time to resume their tour on Sunday. If he can just make Cerys see how important this is - how great it would be in terms of publicity, too - then perhaps...

He’s startled out of his train of thought as Shaan turns around in his seat to inform them that they’re ten minutes away from the capital.

He won’t tell Henry, Alex decides, looking down at the man resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing. He’ll speak to Cerys first. If she doesn’t veto the idea immediately, he’ll contact Pez and start making arrangements.

*

“A day trip,” Cerys repeats. “To Budapest.”

They’re standing in a corridor of the Harpa Concert Hall, looking out across the outside facade of irregular geometric glass panels to the sea beyond. Each honeycomb-esque window is a different shade, painting the view in hues of green and blue and purple. It’s their last stop of the day, and the first time he’s had a chance to speak to Cerys without Henry overhearing. Henry had gotten distracted by the grand piano being set up for tonight’s concert in their honour, and was currently geeking out over it with their equally nerdy tour guide. Sensing they’d be a while, Alex had taken the opportunity to excuse himself to use the bathroom, then doubled back to find their tour manager.

Honestly, Alex kind of wishes he’d stayed there. Henry’s expression as he’d sat down and began to play was serene in a way that Alex doesn’t think he’s seen since they boarded the first plane to start this trip together in London.

“I don’t think you understand, Mr Claremont-Diaz,” Cerys says now, already turning away. “This tour took _months_ to organise. I might be able to make some small alterations here and there, but I can’t simply arrange a day in another country without -”

“It doesn’t have to be an official state visit,” Alex interrupts quickly. “Think of it as a break from the tour. Just a day for us to be ourselves again. We won’t need to arrange any events or visitations. Pez - Percy Okonjo - he’s in Budapest at the moment, working at his and Henry’s shelter. We’ll just visit him and then fly straight to Denmark. They’ve got a big event happening this weekend and I know it would mean a lot to Henry if -”

“I’m sorry,” Cerys says, voice firm. “It’s simply not possible.”

Alex grits his teeth. The thing is, he knows he’s asking a lot from her. It’s one thing to arrange for them to visit a few charities’ headquarters at the last minute, it’s something else entirely to arrange a private jet to fly them to Eastern Europe and back in two days’ time.

But it’s been another long day and honestly, Alex is getting a bit sick of all of this.

So far, their experience here hasn’t differed much from their experience in Sweden. Lots of handshaking and vague promises of friendship between Iceland and the U.K. Lots of photo ops outside famous buildings where crowds have gathered to catch a glimpse of them. Atladóttir seems nice, at least - a definite improvement on Karlsson, anyway - but closed off. They’d spent the better part of the day with her, and Alex isn’t sure they’d discussed anything meaningful at all.

Alex is hungry for meaningful conversations. The Royal Tour is all anyone in this corner of the world is talking about at the moment and he wants to _do something_ with that attention. Something that _matters_.

“I can arrange it all myself,” he persists, hating himself for sounding like a whiny child who doesn’t want to hear the word ‘no’. “We don’t need to take anyone except our security and we’ll be there and back within 24 hours. No tour stops, no press coverage. We’ll only have to cancel one or two events.”

 _We need this_ , he thinks. He might have said it if it was Zahra he was talking to. But Zahra is currently back in Washington, doing the much easier job (her words) of organising the President’s daily schedule, rather than the First Son’s.

Cerys surveys him for a moment. Then something in her expression shifts.

“Alex?” Henry calls from inside the concert hall. Beyond the atrium doors, Alex can hear the discordant sounds of horsehair on strings and keys being tuned; Henry has stopped playing and now the musicians for tonight’s event are warming up. The concert is about to start.

He turns back to their tour manager, who sighs and lifts a hand up to rub at her temples.

“We’d only have to cancel one or two events?” she asks dubiously.

“Just one,” Alex says immediately, sensing victory. “The gala on Saturday isn’t even for us, so we don’t really have to be there, right?”

Cerys rubs at her temples, then raises her hands up to the sky in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says finally.

It’s not a definite yes. Her tone, though, gives Alex hope. He’s heard it countless times before from his parents and bosses and White House employees. It doesn’t sound like a ‘no’. It sounds instead like: _Fine. You wore me down_. _Just please leave my office._

Alex rejoins the concert hall - though not before sending a quick text to Pez on their private message chain. If he’s grinning throughout the entire performance, no one questions it.

*

Alex is hoping to confront Cerys again to ask for a finalised Saturday itinerary on Friday morning, but when he and Henry are roused and bustled from their hotel suite, she’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, they’re greeted by her assistant, Gemma, a friendly mousy-haired woman not much older than himself and Henry. When they’re in the SUV, on their way to their first appointment of the day, Alex enquires after her whereabouts. He’s surprised when Gemma, Shaan, Amy and Cash all exchange looks.

Cash visibly winces. “She’s staying back at the hotel to do some damage control today. You, er, been keeping up with the news, kid?”

Henry finds the article on his phone first. It’s a _Sun_ piece, pure speculation with very little in the way of actual facts to back it up, but (surprisingly, considering the paper in question) they’ve drawn some pretty accurate conclusions in the headline:

**KARLSSON SNUBBED: ALEX AND HENRY’S DISASTROUS DIPLOMATIC MEETING WITH SWEDISH PM**

The picture splashed across the front page of the tabloid’s website is certainly revealing. It shows Karlsson bending down towards Alex with his hand slightly extended, raised just enough that it’s obvious that he’s leaning in for a handshake. It’s equally obvious that Alex is deliberately ignoring him. Beside him, the Henry in the photo is caught in a scowl, fists clenched by his sides.

“Oh,” Henry breaths. He presses a hand to his temple. “This could be a problem.”

Alex skims the article angrily, getting more and more frustrated as he reads. He prides himself on his diplomacy skills, and he knows that ordinarily, Henry’s just as good with people as he is. But the _Sun_ are clearly Karlsson sympathisers, accusing himself and Henry of being standoffish, disrespectful and ungrateful guests whose behaviour is disgracing the entire United Kingdom. At one point, the reporter speculates that “perhaps this tour has caused interpersonal rifts as well as international ones. A close source to the unlikely couple tells us that tensions have been high since the pair moved in together. It seems that the prince and his beau are only now realising the extent to which their lives and goals are incompatible.”

“Who gets paid to write this garbage?” Alex wonders aloud through gritted teeth.

“Cerys is handling it,” Gemma says in a breezy tone which doesn’t quite put Alex at ease. “You two just focus on enjoying yourselves today.” She pauses. “And, er, try to smile when cameras are nearby, all right?”

*

To Alex’s surprise, even with the Karlsson article lingering at the back of his mind, he _does_ enjoy the rest of the day. Their second day in Iceland is a whirl of tourist-y locations showcasing Iceland’s harsh yet majestic beauty. They’re driven around the Golden Circle, stopping to appreciate the Gullfoss waterfall and marvel at the hot springs and erupting geysers of Geysir.

At Gullfoss Falls, they finally get the quiet moment together that Alex has been waiting for. Despite the sun, it’s cold at the edge of the viewpoint they’ve been transported to, the wind whipping spray from the falls into Alex’s face. He doesn’t turn away, though. As FSOTUS, he’s done plenty of travelling in the past six years and been fortunate enough to witness some truly breath-taking natural wonders. This, though, is by far one of the most beautiful places he’s ever seen. It’s not just one waterfall, but several, flowing into each other then rushing at intense speed down a canyon, the depths of which are obscured by a thick layer of mist. The falls are so expansive he can’t even take it all in without moving his head to get a panoramic view of the entire site.

As he’s watching the falls, marvelling at the scope and grandeur of Gullfoss, he feels two strong arms wrap around his waist. Henry squeezes his sides, then leans in to rest his head on Alex’s shoulder. Various members of their team are in the vicinity, but the press have packed up and headed for Geysir already, so they have a few moments to admire the view and simply _be_.

They don’t speak; the deafening rush of water from the mighty falls mere feet away from them would drown out anything they might try to say. But at this moment, they don’t need words. Alex threads the fingers of his right hand through Henry’s and holds him there, breathing in the scent of water and fresh air and Henry. After a moment, he tears his gaze away from the cascade, reaching up with his free hand to gently cup Henry’s cheek, and pulling him down for a kiss. 

They’ve kissed countless times now. Perhaps, Alex thinks dizzily, kissing Henry shouldn’t feel like such a momentous, exhilarating act after two years of domesticity. He lives with Henry now; he’s seen him sweaty and smelling of bleach after cleaning the bathroom and he’s seen him with bedhead and crease marks from his pillow across his cheeks in the morning. They have sex (mindblowingly good sex) on a regular basis. And yet, every kiss - from short, quick pecks to deeper, longer kisses - is still so charged, so sweet, that Alex thinks he falls a little bit more in love every time Henry’s lips meet his.

Alex closes his eyes, lets the roar of the water rush over him, engulfing his senses, and thinks, _I’d do anything for this man_.

*

They end the day with an evening stroll with the President of Iceland and his family through Þingvellir, the site of the country’s first Parliament. (When Alex first saw “evening walk with President Magnús Ólafurson” on the agenda, he’d thought someone had made a mistake. But nope: Iceland really does have a President _and_ a Prime Minister. Alex can’t get his head around Icelandic politics.) True to his promise to Gemma, he makes sure the reporters who’ve shown up to _this_ event don’t get any shots of him frowning. It’s hard work, since Ólafurson isn’t really the most entertaining guy. By the time the cameras have left, his jaw aches from smiling.

Despite the kind of boring company, Alex’s inner political history buff can’t help but geek out over Þingvellir. Not only is it the site where the Icelandic parliament was born, with the formation of the Alþingi in 930 CE, it also happens to be situated in a wide valley with cliffs on both sides, caused by the shifting movements of the Eurasian and American tectonic plates. They’re literally walking along the geographic line separating two continents. History was made here, but the land keeps changing, year on year. A reminder, Alex thinks, that there’s always _more_ history to be made by new generations.

Without agreeing to, they seem to naturally divide off into two separate groups once the reporters have finished documenting the visit; Alex and Henry find themselves lingering, walking a little slower than the President, his wife and three daughters - presumably, they’ve been here several times before and the majesty of this place has worn off for them.

It’s the end of the day - the midnight sun is kind of throwing off Alex’s sense of time, but he knows that back home in Brooklyn, the sun would have set by now. He wonders if he’ll have a chance to speak with Cerys again when they return to the hotel. If he doesn’t, he’s worried that they’ll miss their shot at Budapest. Pez is on board - he’d text back several enthusiastic emojis late last night - but Cerys never technically said _yes_. Although Alex is hopeful that her absence today means she’s not just doing damage control but also making last-minute plans for Hungary, he’s also starting to question whether she was sincere when she told him she’d see what she could do.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that it takes him a while to realise that Henry’s been equally quiet.

“Hey,” he says to Henry now. “What are you thinking?”

His fiancé looks down at him, eyes bright.

“I was thinking about how, here and now, we’re in the middle of two tectonic plates, watching Europe and America shift apart at an infinitesimal rate,” Henry tells him. “So slowly that we can’t even see it, but it’s happening. And it’s a force too powerful to stop, or slow down. But we’re standing in the rift that’s been created in-between, the son of the President of America and the Prince of Wales, and you’re holding my hand.” He squeezes Alex’s fingers. “There’s a beautiful metaphor about our love and stubbornness in there somewhere.”

Alex stares at him for a moment, before groaning so loudly that a few wading birds nearby take off in flight.

“Jesus Christ,” he says in a low voice, feeling slightly feral. “You’re _awful_. You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to wait until we’re back in the hotel to rip your clothes off. Goddamn you.”

Henry just laughs brightly and shrugs. He lets go of Alex’s hand, only to curl his arm around his waist, tugging them closer together as they gaze up at the cliff edge formed by the Eurasian tectonic plate. And Alex, giddy with love, is helpless to do anything but rest his head against Henry’s shoulder. Really, he thinks, he should have known that his fiancé would find a way to make this incredible place even more incredible with his insufferably brilliant, poetic mind.

“Excuse me?” a timid voice asks.

Alex turns, bringing Henry with him. It’s one of the President’s daughters. She’s broken off from where her family are getting ready to depart, and is standing just a few feet away. She looks to be about fourteen, short with long blonde hair that she’s pulled back into french braids. Smiling nervously, she lifts her phone in an outstretched hand.

“Do you mind?” she asks in perfect English. “I know we just had a lot of group photos, but I was hoping I could get one with just the two of you…?”

“Of course,” Henry says, smiling with sincerity. “It’s Ólína, right?”

Ólína’s eyes light up when Henry says her name. “Yes,” she says, beaming wide. “Thank you, so, so much…”

They pose for the selfie, Alex on her right and Henry on her left. The president’s daughter inspects the photo, and then, apparently satisfied, pockets her phone.

“I’m so happy to meet you both,” Ólína says, a little breathlessly. “You have no idea how much.” She pauses for a moment, as though psyching herself up, before barrelling on. “I didn’t think I’d ever have the courage to come out to my father - at least, not while he was still in office. Then I watched your speech, Alex, and... well…”

Suddenly, there’s tears in her eyes. She wipes them away on a sleeve, embarrassed.

“Just seeing how… proud and unashamed you were. It made me feel proud and unashamed too. It made me brave. So, thank you.”

Honestly, Alex doesn’t know what to say. He feels a little like crying right now, too. It’s not like people haven’t come up to him to tell him similar stories before - to tell him that he’s an inspiration to them, that he helped them come out or accept themselves. But this is the first time he’s met someone with experiences so similar to his own, someone who’s been helped by seeing a young queer person in politics, in the public eye.

“And Henry,” she continues, gushing a little. “I’m just in awe of how much you give back to the community. It’s so inspiring. I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next with your platform!”

“Oh,” Henry says, surprise and something else in his voice. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, quickly. “It’s great to meet you. I mean, it’s so nice to meet someone who _gets it_.”

They fall into an easy conversation, Ólína assuring them that her father’s reaction to her coming out had been one of overwhelming support, and chatting with them about the LGBTQ+ helpline she’s been volunteering with after school. They’ve been talking for nearly fifteen minutes when Gemma intervenes, reminding Alex that they need to be heading back to the hotel. It’s not until he’s exchanging twitter handles with Ólína and saying goodbye that Alex realises Henry hasn’t contributed much to the conversation in a while.

“Hey,” he says as they climb back into the SUV. “What’s up?”

Henry shakes his head and gives Alex a wry smile. “It’s nothing.”

Anyone else might have been fooled. Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor is exceptionally good at pretending to be fine. But Alex knows the man sitting beside him almost as well as he knows himself. He’s watched Henry’s mood rise and sink throughout this week. He saw how content Henry was just a few hours ago, when they held each other at Gullfoss Falls. Now, a dark mood has cast a shadow over his earlier happiness, like storm clouds blocking out the light.

“No it’s not,” Alex says emphatically. “It’s something. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Henry glances towards Gemma. “Let’s wait until we’re back at the hotel,” he suggests, and that’s when Alex knows that his fiancé is definitely not okay.

*

####  _When you tell me to come, I will come, by the next train, just as I am. This is not meekness, be assured; I do not come naturally by meekness; know that it is a proud surrender to you._

**\- Letter from Edna St. Vincent Millay to Edith Wynn Matthison, 1917**

It’s a long, impossibly slow drive back to Reykjavik, and even when they’re back in the hotel, they have to wait a while to be alone together; Gemma insists on updating them on ‘the Karlsson problem’ (the photo has become a meme online, Cerys has released a statement from the two of them thanking Karlsson for his hospitality, and the jerk has, fortunately, not spoken to the press. Yet). Alex barely pays attention to the briefing and excuses himself and Henry at the earliest opportunity. When they’re finally alone in their hotel suite, Alex takes Henry by the hands and reaches up on his tiptoes to press his forehead against Henry’s.

“Hey. Tell me what’s bothering you,” he insists. “Tell me how I can help.”

“It’s just something that girl, Ólína, said,” Henry explains, sounding weary. “About how I’ve got this massive platform, and I could use it to do some real good.”

“Henry,” Alex says, gently. He reaches up, rubbing his hands up and down over Henry’s arms in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “Sweetheart, you do. You do so much good. You wear yourself out with all the good you do.” 

But Henry’s shaking his head. “I should have pushed more,” he says. “Dug my heels in.”

Alex frowns, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“When Gran and Cerys first started putting this trip together,” Henry clarifies. “I shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I should have _demanded_ that we visit my shelters - or any LGBTQ organisation.” He pulls away from Alex and slumps down onto the bed. “Today was amazing. Beyond amazing. But what Ólína said… that’s not true. I had the opportunity to make this tour... _special_. Meaningful. To use our platform to give a voice to the voiceless. And I let it slip through my fingers.”

“Bullshit,” Alex hisses, with such venom in his voice that Henry looks up.

“That’s not on you, okay?” He crosses the room and kneels down, digging his fingers into Henry’s thighs. There’s a lump in his throat and his blood feels like fire flowing through him. “ _Never_ think that you don’t do enough.”

Henry reaches out, cupping Alex’s cheek in his palm. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, but the half-smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know,” he says. “I just feel like I should be doing _more_. This trip… it’s not what I expected. Even after visiting my shelters was vetoed, some stupid, wishful part of me still harboured hope that we’d be able to visit charities and talk about projects which mean something to us. Instead, I feel like we’re just being shuffled from one photo op to the next. Like I’m a puppet of the monarchy all over again.”

Enough is enough, Alex decides.

“I asked Cerys to take us to Hungary tomorrow,” he blurts.

Henry’s fingers, which had been brushing across Alex’s cheek, still. “You did what?”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t want to say anything to you until she got back to me,” he finds himself admitting. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Still frozen in front of him, Henry looks a little dazed. “Cerys _agreed_ to this?” he asks.

“She was against it at first,” Alex tells him. “But then I explained that we wouldn’t have to cancel the tour, that we could be there and back in a day, and she seemed on board. She said she’d look into it for us.” Henry seems speechless, so Alex carries on: “It’ll be exhausting, I know, but we can sleep on the plane. And the flight back to Denmark won’t be as long as the flight from Iceland. I don’t know how we’ll get from the airport to the city centre yet, but I’m sure we can figure someth-”

Henry’s mouth collides with his, shutting him up. Their lips press together clumsily for a moment, before Henry’s pulling away, only to draw closer again immediately, pressing his forehead against Alex’s and letting out a wild, shaky laugh.

“You,” he says, mumbling the words into Alex’s mouth, “are the most generous, thoughtful, wonderful fiancé a man could ask for.”

“And hottest,” Alex murmurs, grinning. “Don’t forget hottest.”

“Vain,” Henry scolds, but he doesn’t disagree.

Alex leans in for one more kiss, then scrambles to his feet, pulling Henry up with him.

“Come on,” he says, “we’ve got a last-minute day trip to plan.”

*

Cerys’ room is on the same floor as theirs, but it takes an embarrassingly long while for them to compose themselves enough to exit the room and pull each other along the corridor.

Henry raps on the door with his right hand, still clutching Alex’s hand with the other. Cerys opens the door to them in her pyjamas, tour binder still clutched in one hand like she’s planning on sleeping with it.

“Oh,” she exclaims when she sees it’s them. She adjusts her reading glasses, clearly trying her best to look professional, despite the pyjamas. “Your Royal Highness. Mr Claremont-Diaz. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I’m here for an update,” Alex says quickly. “On what we discussed yesterday?”

Cerys purses her lips. “I’m sorry, Mr Claremont-Diaz,” she says. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to report. You’d better get back to your suite - you’ve got to be up early tomorrow for our flight to Copenhagen.”

Alex’s heart drops like a stone in his chest. Beside him, he feels Henry deflate.

“What about Hungary?”

But Cerys has already turned back into the room, her gaze dropped to the binder in her arms.

“Cerys?” Alex prods.

“I made some enquiries,” Cerys says, still apparently absorbed in a page of the schedule Alex knows for a fact she wrote herself.

“ _And_?”

Cerys waits a moment, before lowering the binder onto a table and finally turning to meet Alex’s eyes.

“It seems that Her Majesty the Queen would prefer it if the prince and yourself could stick to the tour itinerary she has already approved,” Cerys states, adjusting her glasses again as she speaks. “She expressed her concern over the press coverage of your meeting with Mr. Karlsson and… ah… indicated that a certain… announcement… might have to be delayed if we run into any more difficulties in the remainder of the tour.” 

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Alex realises that he should have seen this coming. _Of course_ Cerys would have to consult with the Queen before making any last-minute alterations to their tour - especially one that involved crossing borders. Maybe part of him _had_ known it was a long-shot, and he’d just refused to acknowledge that little voice in his head. He’s been stubbornly telling himself all day that they’ll be allowed to go, because he didn’t want to accept the fact that they might not. He always has been good at not acknowledging things he doesn’t want to admit to himself.

Cerys, to her credit, looks and sounds uncomfortable relaying the Queen’s message. It’s only a slight pursing of the lips and eyebrows, but it’s the most emotion he’s ever seen from her. Still, ever the consummate professional, she clears her throat, picks up the binder again, and buries her face in it.

Alex stands still for all of five seconds before absolutely fucking losing it.

“That _bigoted fucking crone_ ,” he seethes.

Cerys drops the binder. Carefully collated timetables, contact sheets, NDAs and colour-coded post-it notes go flying as it hits the floor with a comically loud thud.

Aghast, Cerys looks from the papers scattered across the carpet to Alex, who’s still fuming, hands clenched in fists at his sides; to Henry, who hasn’t moved an inch.

“It’s alright,” Henry says, his arms folded and voice surprisingly calm. “You can agree with him. I do.”

She laughs, a strained, high-pitched sound, then throws her hands up in the air and collapses back into an armchair, limbs strewn out like a ragdoll.

“Well, _shit_ ,” is all she says.

*

They don’t bother to sort out the mess. Instead, Alex takes a moment to let the rage bleed out of him before collapsing into the chair next to Cerys’, while Henry busies himself with a classically British method of conflict resolution - pouring her a cup of tea. He sets it on the side table, then sinks into the seat next to Alex’s.

“So,” he says, his voice still sounding miraculously level considering the emotional rollercoaster he’s been put through over the last fifteen minutes. “What now?”

Alex and Cerys both turn to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Alex asks.

Henry shrugs. “Well, we’re not carrying on with the tour, are we?”

Alex stares. “We’re not?”

Henry looks at him as if he’s the one who’s said something mad. “Alex. My grandmother is essentially blackmailing me. She’s holding our engagement announcement hostage. And we’ve both admitted to being unhappy with how it’s gone so far, so... to hell with her and her tour.”

“Yeah, but… I thought you wanted to do things properly this time,” Alex hears himself say.

Henry looks bewildered. “Properly?”

“You know,” Alex says, waving his arms at nothing in particular. “The tour, the official announcement on some fancy lawn, the crown-approved press statements, the... fucking _town crier_ or whatever the fuck else you have. Isn’t that what we’re doing all this for? To have our news treated just like any other royal engagement?”

Henry looks at his hands. “Part of me wants that,” he admits.

“But?”

“But I never wanted _this_ ,” Henry gestures to the pages of the tour schedule still scattered around them on the floor. “If doing things properly means being silenced and scrutinised and forced to play a role every minute of the day, count me out. Maybe I would have kept quiet and played along two years ago, but not now. I’m sick of trying to assimilate. That’s not who we are, and it’s not how I’m starting our married life together. _Fuck_ doing things properly.”

Alex feels those words loosen something inside of him, like a muscle he hadn’t realised was clenched. “So, we’re going to Hungary?”

“We’re going to Hungary,” Henry confirms.

“Awesome. Love doing things out of spite,” Alex says and Henry throws him an amused grin. “Let’s do this.”

*

Alex makes two calls. One to Pez, and one to arrange a private flight from Keflavík to Budapest.

No one bothers to contact the Queen.

Before they leave, Alex helps Cerys gather together the papers strewn across the hotel room floor. To his surprise, Cerys shoves creased and folded bits of paper unceremoniously back into the lever arch, without even glancing at them. Alex grins as he hands her his own pile of haphazardly gathered papers.

“You’re not going to alphabetise those?” he asks cheekily, and laughs in delight and disbelief when she snatches the papers from him, scrunches them into a ball and tosses them in the bottom of her handbag.

For a moment, Cerys looks mildly horrified by what she’s just done. Then she straightens, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear sheepishly. 

“I have multiple digital copies,” she admits with a small shrug. “Not that it matters, since we’re throwing the schedule out the window now.”

Alex looks consideringly at the crumpled papers sticking out of her handbag.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks, feeling a little guilty for not asking sooner. “I mean, the Queen’s basically your boss, right? If we do this without her permission…”

Cerys waves away his concern. “I’m head hunted by prestigious companies offering highly competitive salaries every other week,” she says matter-of-factly. “If Her Majesty decides to no longer keep me in her employment, I’m certain I’ll land on my feet.”

That’s a bit of a relief. Honestly, as unhappy as he and Henry have been with the official tour schedule, he knows it’s not her fault - Cerys has been both very good at her job and very accommodating. He sort of hopes she stays with the Queen. It’s nice to know that there’s at least one person working in Buckingham who’s on their side.

“Thanks for putting up with all of my shit this week,” he says. “I know it hasn’t been easy.”

Cerys pauses before she speaks, like she’s not sure she should say what comes out next. Then she gives a shrug, as if to say _‘What have I got to lose?’_ and admits, “It hasn’t been so bad. You’re not nearly as high maintenance as Her Majesty.”

Alex lets out a delighted laugh and punches her in the arm. “I’m scandalised,” he tells her.

Cerys snorts - the most human sound he’s heard from her all week. “Good luck in Hungary,” she says, offering a farewell handshake. She pauses, then adds, slyly, “And if you find yourself in need of an event planner any time soon - for say, an engagement party, or a wedding - feel free to give me a call.”

*

####  _fucking yrs,_

#### a

**-Letter from Alexander Claremont-Diaz to His Royal Highness Prince Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, 2020**

Alex and Henry aren’t greeted by reporters or politicians or diplomatic envoys of any kind when they touch down in Budapest. Instead, they arrive under cover of night and step down onto a silent runway. The only person on the tarmac in front of them is a dark-skinned young man in a shockingly bright orange sweater, leaning against a sleek silver car.

“Heard you boys are in need of a fairy godfather,” Percy Okonjo calls. He opens the passenger door of the convertible and waggles his eyebrows at them. “Climb aboard my pumpkin.”

Henry ignores the car and makes a beeline for Pez, literally leaping into his arms. Alex gives the two best friends a moment alone together before tackling them both, making them all fall to the ground in a jumble of limbs and laughter.

“You’re the one who looks like a pumpkin,” Alex points out once they’ve composed themselves, poking Pez’s orange-clad arm.

Pez grins saucily. “That would be a very different kind of ride, Alexander dear, and one I’m not sure your beloved here would approve of.”

“Pez, please can you not flirt with my fiancé in front of me,” Henry whines, lying back on the tarmac with an arm over his eyes. “Good God, we’ve been here less than thirty seconds and I already regret coming to see you.”

“No you don’t,” Pez says, blowing Henry a kiss. “Besides, you know I only really have eyes for a certain pair of someones back in Washington.”

Together, they clamber into the convertible. Pez drives them towards the private airstrip’s security and after a very quick customs check (a perk of being royalty, Alex guesses) they’re out of the airport and heading west towards the city centre.

They’re travelling with a skeleton crew now - just their security, headed up by Cash, Amy and two of Henry’s PPOs. It was agreed that Shaan, Cerys and the rest of the tour crew should stay behind, to at least give the appearance that they knew nothing about Alex and Henry’s surprise Eastern European excursion.

They haven’t decided yet how long they’re staying, or whether they’ll meet back up with Cerys to continue with the crown-approved tour afterwards. It’s nice, Alex thinks, as he gazes out the window at high-rise apartment buildings sharing block space with grand baroque cathedrals and art nouveau museum edifices, to not know what they’ll be doing tomorrow.

Pez drives into the heart of the city, stopping outside a building with a yellow door that Alex recognises from the Instagram posts he posted earlier in the week. It’s late - so late it’s technically early - so Pez leads them around the back of the building and up two flights of stairs to the apartments owned by the shelter.

“Didn’t have time to book a hotel room and our beds are all full, so you’ll have to crash in my office,” Pez is saying, when a familiar blonde girl appears in a doorway wearing a dressing gown and slippers.

“Pez?” she asks in an Eastern European accent, sounding sleepy and confused. Then she freezes, eyes wide. “Prince Henry! Alex Claremont-Diaz! Um. Wow. Hello.”

“Lili, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s just Henry.” Henry leans in for a hug, then moves to the side to make the introductions. “Alex, this is Lili. She keeps things running around here.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Alex has time to say, before he hears a younger voice call out in Hungarian, and two teenagers appear behind Lili.

One of them notices him, says something to their companion, and then disappears back down the hallway, only to reemerge moments later leading a group of very sleepy-looking teens. Alex is still mid-handshake with Lili when he finds himself surrounded by Hungarian kids in pyjamas, all chattering in excitable voices.

“Guys, give them space,” Pez protests. Lili translates and the teenagers step back, sheepishly.

“We heard you were in Iceland,” one of them says in English. “It was on the news.”

Alex shrugs. “We were, but we wanted to come and see you guys so we left a little early,” he says, honestly.

“Are you coming with us on the march tomorrow?” another kid asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Henry assures them.

Despite the late hour, the kids insist on taking Alex on a tour of the rest of the shelter, ending in the living room area, which seems to have been turned into a mini version of his mom’s campaign headquarters - papers and banners are strewn across every surface. Pinned to the wall, Alex can see the flag from the photo Pez sent them earlier in the week - a trans pride flag with the hashtags #LGRforHungary, #IgentANemre and #Drop33 painted across it. On the table are more flags, banners and placards, some written in English, some in Hungarian. Lili offers Alex and Henry two spare placards.

“Thanks,” Alex says, genuinely touched to be included. “I can help you make some more tomorrow, if you need another pair of hands.”

“We’ve got plenty already,” Pez interrupts. “But if you’re willing to be put to work, I’m sure we can find jobs for you two.”

“Anything you need,” Henry promises, slapping Pez on the back.

“Elnézést?” It’s one of the shelter kids. They lift their phone, then gesture to Henry - a clear message that needs no translation. They’re asking for a photo with Henry.

“Oh! Sure,” Alex agrees. But when he tries to take the phone, the kid shakes their head. They want a photo with both Henry _and him_.

“Here,” Lili says, taking the phone. “Allow me.”

The kid stands between Alex and Henry, posing in the same place Pez had, in front of the flag pinned to the wall. Soon, the other kids take notice and it turns into a photoshoot session. At one point, all of the shelter kids, plus Alex, Henry and Pez are in the frame, holding out their handmade placards and beaming at the camera.

“Wait,” Henry says after the last photo is taken, before they disperse. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his own phone, unlocking it and handing it to Lili. “I’d like a picture too, if you don’t mind.”

Alex locks eyes with Henry as this last photo is taken. He knows why Henry wants to be able to look back on this moment. This. Right here. This is what they had been missing on the ‘official’ tour. This act of rebellion – defiance in the face of discrimination – this is the change they’d been hoping to be part of. And now here they are.

*

Eventually, Lili manages to convince everyone to drag themselves back to bed, promising that they’ll have plenty of time to pester Alex and Henry tomorrow. As soon as the shelter’s quiet once more, Pez directs them to where a sofa bed has been set up in his office, and then leaves them to get some rest. It’s a far cry from the 5-star hotel treatment they’ve grown used to over the past week, Alex muses, as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed and tugs off his boots. He’s in the middle of an unfamiliar city, far from the luxuries he’s used to depending on when he travels, and the mattress (like all sofa bed mattresses) is thin and stiff. And yet, Alex knows he’s going to have the best night’s sleep he’s had in days on that sofa.

Still. It might be about four o’clock in the morning, but he’s not tired yet. He’s buzzed.

“Hey.” He turns to Henry, who’s already lying on the bed with his eyes closed, still fully dressed.

“Mmm?”

“Are you tired?”

Henry opens his eyes. “You know me. Perpetual insomniac. Why?”

“Can’t sleep.” Alex bends down, brushing a hand over Henry’s cheek. Henry’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into the touch. “Wanna do something potentially very stupid?”

Henry’s lips curve into a smile.

*

Considering how difficult it was for them to find time to be alone earlier this week, sneaking out of the shelter proves to be surprisingly easy. They don dark hoodies and jeans, then creep through the window of Pez’s office, out onto a long, ornate balcony overlooking an internal courtyard which seems to be a shared space for the apartments in this building. From here, they’re able to access a stairwell which takes them out onto the street below.

The sky’s still dark when they step outside, although a faint greyish tinge in the east reminds Alex that it won’t stay that way for long. It’s cold for July, but there’s a warmth in Alex’s chest that sparked to life when they posed for photos with the kids and it doesn’t seem to be dying down. Alex double checks the Google Maps app on his phone before taking Henry’s hand and pulling him across the deserted street, heading west, towards the river.

Alex is 99.9% sure that Cash is tailing them, but for now, at least, he seems to be letting them have the illusion of privacy. They slip through empty squares and across tram tracks, ducking their heads and sticking to the shadows whenever they see car lights flash past. As they get closer to the riverbank the traffic increases, but by then, Alex can see his destination anyway.

“The Széchenyi Chain Bridge,” Henry murmurs in recognition.

Alex groans. “I ever tell you that it’s kind of a turn on the way you manage to pronounce words like _Széchenyi_ so flawlessly?”

“I live to feed your competency kink,” Henry teases.

That comment earns Henry a poke in the side, which he deflects easily by wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist and drawing him in. Alex relents, reaching his hands up to cup Henry’s neck and letting himself be kissed into near oblivion on the banks of the River Danube, in front of countless passing cars. It’s only when Henry makes a small, guttural noise that Alex comes back to himself enough to remember why they’re here.

He pulls away, letting himself enjoy the sight of Henry with rumpled hair and half-closed eyes for a moment, before leaning back in for a softer, chaster kiss.

“C’mon,” he whispers against his fiancé’s mouth. “We’re nearly there.”

When they part, Alex takes Henry by the hand and leads him onto the Széchenyi Chain Bridge walkway, passing beneath two gigantic stone lions guarding the entrance. They walk hand-in-hand across the Danube, stopping at the halfway point between the two stone arches separating the districts of Buda and Pest.

Alex knows that sneaking out to explore the city in the dead of night was the right move when he sees Henry’s expression. Henry leans forward, grasping the railing of the bridge and just lets himself _look_.

From this vantage point, the city at twilight looks like something out of another time. On the opposite shore, the ground rises sharply up to Buda Castle which gleams gold in the night-time floodlights. When Alex looks along the riverbank they started on, he sees another large, impressively ornate building - a huge mass of domes and steeples stretching out along the riverside.

“That’s the Országház,” Henry says, pointing the Parliament building out with flawless pronunciation once again, though it needs no introduction with the way it dominates the skyline. “That’s where we’ll be later today.”

Alex hums, settling into Henry’s side. “Are you looking forward to it?” he asks. “There’s going to be a lot of eyes on us.”

“Good,” Henry says firmly. “Finally, they’ll be taking pictures of something worth photographing.”

Alex thinks back to the way he felt meeting the kids from Henry’s shelter. That sense that they were doing something worthwhile, using their platform for good. Maybe, hopefully, the protest tomorrow would have drawn a huge crowd and reporters regardless. But he knows without a doubt that once he and Henry attach their names to it, people are going to take notice.

There’s a giddy feeling swelling in his chest at the thought of it. Of _making a difference_.

He must have been quiet for too long, because Henry tears his gaze away from the view, focusing all of his attention now on Alex. “Are you all right, love?”

“I’m good,” Alex assures him. “I was just thinking that when they write about us in the history books, I’d rather they use a picture of us with those kids than a picture of us with someone like Karlsson.”

Henry seems to like the idea of that too, if the way he smiles before leaning in to press his lips against Alex’s own is any indication. Henry pulls away after a few seconds, only to reach out and press his hand against Alex’s chest, fingers lingering over the spot where the key and two rings reside.

And it occurs to Alex, quite suddenly, that there’s no reason for them to keep their engagement to themselves any longer.

Without looking away from Henry, Alex reaches down into the front of his hoodie and pulls out the chain around his neck. When he goes to undo the clasp, Henry reaches out and wraps his hand around Alex’s.

“May I?” he asks, his voice as quiet as a breath.

Alex relinquishes the necklace, letting Henry slide the engagement ring off the chain and onto Alex’s finger. Where it’s supposed to be.

With trembling hands, Alex reaches out, unzips the top of Henry’s hoodie, and pulls Henry’s chain up. He curls his fingers around the engagement ring that he and his father picked out, months ago. The metal is warm from where it’s been resting against Henry’s chest.

“Go ahead,” Henry whispers. His voice is steady, but his eyes are bright with unshed tears.

For the second time in his life, Alex slides a ring onto his fiancé’s finger. This time, though, he knows it’s going to stay there for good.

Henry threads his fingers through Alex’s as soon as the ring is in place.

“No more hiding?” he asks.

Alex smiles and presses his forehead to Henry’s. “No more hiding.”

Henry brings his free hand to Alex’s neck and pulls him in for a gentle kiss that leaves Alex feeling weightless; the bridge and the lights flicker out of existence and the only real things in this world are the press of Henry’s lips against his and the sturdy weight of the ring on his finger. 

“Love you,” Alex whispers when they part.

“I love you too... _édesem_ ,” Henry replies.

“Oh my God,” Alex protests, pushing his hand into Henry’s face while Henry cackles gleefully. “I can’t believe you stole my thing. I hate you so much.”

“Nah, you don’t.” Henry wraps his arms around Alex again, and Alex lets him with only a few mild grumblings of dissent.

They lean into each other. Soon they’ll walk back, climb into bed and maybe catch an hour’s sleep before it’s time to help Pez get ready for the march. For now, though, they’re content to stay here and watch the sun rise.

Before they leave, Henry uploads the photo of the two of them with the shelter kids to Twitter, using the protest’s hashtags. For good measure, Alex snaps a picture of their hands entwined on the bridge railing, engagement rings on full display. He uploads it to Instagram, then, before he can think twice about it, posts the photo with the caption: _Never been prouder_.

Henry switches his phone off and Alex does the same.

Predictably, moments later, both Twitter and Instagram crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art pieces accompanying this fic were created by the exceptionally talented [JessJesstheBest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessJesstheBest/pseuds/JessJesstheBest). Go check out [her story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704354) for the Big Bang, it's wonderful.
> 
> This fic wouldn't be half as good as it ended up being without my betas, [galwaygremlin](https://galwaygremlin.tumblr.com/) and [im-definitely-hermione-granger](https://im-definitely-hermione-granger.tumblr.com). HUGE thanks to Jess, Clare and Lise for all of their comments, cheerleading and corrections of my Britishisms. Words cannot express how lucky I am to have ended up with such an amazing team.
> 
> An extra thanks to [ja-vi-ta](https://ja-vi-ta.tumblr.com) for helping out with Alex's Spanish. Any language mistakes are entirely my own fault - if you're a native Swedish, Icelandic or Hungarian speaker and you spot something that isn't right, please let me know!
> 
>  **A disclaimer** :  
> The Britain and America in Red White and Royal Blue are not the Britain and America of our universe, but better, more tolerant versions. Likewise, the depictions of countries/world leaders in this fic are purely fictional, and are not meant to be accurate representations of the politics of our world today. Unfortunately, Hungary's Article 33 is all too real - you can use the hashtags mentioned in the fic to find out more.
> 
>  **Notes on letters:**  
>  Title (typo included) is taken from the beautiful love letters of Peter Orlovsky and Allen Ginsberg (Ginsberg wrote the “I miss you like a home” letter Alex quotes to Henry). You can read a selection of their letters to each other [here](http://rictornorton.co.uk/ginsber2.htm).
> 
> Lord Alfred Douglas was a dick, but Wilde’s letter to him fit so perfectly I couldn’t not include it.
> 
> *
> 
> If you're wondering how Alex and Henry's engagement went down, the answers are [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244334).
> 
> I've also put together a visual guide to the locations in Alex and Henry's tour, which you can find [here](https://midnightliars.tumblr.com/post/631255396802297856/because-my-descriptions-dont-do-the-beauty-of).
> 
> Come yell at me about these idiots and how much they love each other on [tumblr](http://midnightliars.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry to disappoint - there's no new chapter here. Just trying to fix the posting date error!

**Author's Note:**

> The art pieces accompanying this fic were created by the exceptionally talented [JessJesstheBest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessJesstheBest/pseuds/JessJesstheBest). Go check out [her story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704354) for the Big Bang, it's wonderful.
> 
> This fic wouldn't be half as good as it ended up being without my betas, [galwaygremlin](https://galwaygremlin.tumblr.com/) and [im-definitely-hermione-granger](https://im-definitely-hermione-granger.tumblr.com). HUGE thanks to Jess, Clare and Lise for all of their comments, cheerleading and corrections of my Britishisms. Words cannot express how lucky I am to have ended up with such an amazing team.
> 
> An extra thanks to [ja-vi-ta](https://ja-vi-ta.tumblr.com) for helping out with Alex's Spanish. Any language mistakes are entirely my own fault - if you're a native Swedish, Icelandic or Hungarian speaker and you spot something that isn't right, please let me know!
> 
>  **A disclaimer** :  
> The Britain and America in Red White and Royal Blue are not the Britain and America of our universe, but better, more tolerant versions. Likewise, the depictions of countries/world leaders in this fic are purely fictional, and are not meant to be accurate representations of the politics of our world today. Unfortunately, Hungary's Article 33 is all too real - you can use the hashtags mentioned in the fic to find out more.
> 
>  **Notes on letters:**  
>  Title (typo included) is taken from the beautiful love letters of Peter Orlovsky and Allen Ginsberg (Ginsberg wrote the “I miss you like a home” letter Alex quotes to Henry). You can read a selection of their letters to each other [here](http://rictornorton.co.uk/ginsber2.htm).
> 
> Lord Alfred Douglas was a dick, but Wilde’s letter to him fit so perfectly I couldn’t not include it.
> 
> *
> 
> If you're wondering how Alex and Henry's engagement went down, the answers are [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244334).
> 
> I've also put together a visual guide to the locations in Alex and Henry's tour, which you can find [here](https://midnightliars.tumblr.com/post/631255396802297856/because-my-descriptions-dont-do-the-beauty-of).
> 
> Come yell at me about these idiots and how much they love each other on [tumblr](http://midnightliars.tumblr.com).


End file.
